


Permission to Wed

by Kiraly



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Awkwardness, Family, Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: Solveig meant to impress the general with her competence. What actually came out was “I’m going to marry your grandson someday.”





	Permission to Wed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> Hi Elleth! I hope you enjoy this fic - I loved the idea of Solveig trying to impress her crazy grandmother-in-law, and also the thought of Sigrun Larsen becoming a general. So I combined them!

“Solveig. Don’t do it.”

“Do what?” Solveig asked, only half listening to Lise’s nagging. Most of her attention was fixed on the elevated table at the head of the mead hall, where the generals and other important officials ate. Lise and Solveig were only lieutenants, so their seats were considerably further back, but she still had a decent view. There was some kind of argument going on.

“Whatever crazy thing you’re thinking of doing. I know that look.” As the elder of them by a six-month margin, Lise had spent years looking out for Solveig. Or  _ trying  _ to, anyway. Solveig was far better at dragging them both into trouble than Lise was at keeping them out of it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, glancing at her plate for long enough to shovel another bite into her mouth. “It’s not a crime to look at the generals.” 

Lise remained unconvinced. “The way you’re looking, it should be. What are you plotting?” A look of horror crossed her face. “No. Oh,  _ hell  _ no, tell me this isn’t about your crazy crush on Asbjørn.” Solveig favored her cousin with a dreamy smile. Lise groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Shit, it totally is. Why are you like this?”

Solveig ignored the question—she’d been asked too many times over the years to be bothered by it. “I can’t help it, Lise. Have you  _ seen  _ him? Gods.”

Lise mimed vomiting into her mug. “Ugh. I’m sure he’s the pinnacle of manhood or whatever, but I’ll stick with my girlfriend, thanks.” She shook her head. “Look at you. Any second now you’ll be carving ‘Mrs. General Eide” into your bench.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Solveig snorted. “There’s only one General Eide around here right now, and it sure as hell isn’t Asbjørn. I bet you my best knife I make captain before he does.” 

Everyone knew the stories about General Sigrun Larsen Eide, even those who hadn’t served under her. She was one of the last remaining survivors of the Old Guard—the people who had been born into the Old World and lived through the advent of the Rash. That was impressive all by itself; it had taken a lot to survive those years, and most people hadn’t. Those who did tended to be determined, lucky, and tough as nails. General Eide was all of that and more. 

Solveig looked back at the head table just in time to see one of the benches crash onto its side. “Ah. That’s my opening.” A woman emerged from the chaos around the head table—they may have been generals, but they were still Norwegian, and an overturned bench was excuse for a fight—and wove her way toward the door. Solveig dodged Lise’s restraining hand and intercepted her.

“General Eide!” The woman didn’t slow, so Solveig followed her. Even though she was tiny, nearly a head shorter than Solveig, the general still moved at a steady clip. “If I can have a moment of your time?”

“You have one right now, apparently. What is it?” 

Solveig had practiced her speech a thousand times in her head. It was carefully worded to make her seem competent and well-trained, not boastful but impressive enough that the general might remember her kindly in the future. But now that she was face-to-face with the grey-haired matriarch, what actually came out was “I’m going to marry your grandson someday.”

General Eide clearly hadn’t expected  _ that.  _ “What?” Before Solveig could open her mouth to start babbling apologies, she continued, “Who are you, anyway? If this is one of Asbjørn’s jokes, I’ll make that boy  _ wish  _ for a whole summer on latrine duty.”

“No!” Solveig found her voice. “He didn’t have anything to do with it, it just—slipped out.”

The general did not look impressed. “Did it.”

Solveig took a deep breath. She might have just assigned  _ herself  _ a summer of latrine duty—or something worse—but the least she could do was keep from dragging Asbjørn down with her. “I’m so sorry. Whatever punishment you want, I’ll do it. I’m Lieutenant Solveig—”

“Lieutenant?” General Eide turned on her heel and continued on her way toward the door. “That explains the stupidity, then. But my grandson isn’t marrying some lieutenant, even if he’s only one himself. Talk to me again when you make captain.” With that, she left the mead hall. Solveig watched her go, open-mouthed. It felt like she’d just dodged a bullet, only to step directly in front of a train.

* * *

 

“All right, listen up!” Solveig squared her shoulders and faced her platoon down, taking note of the ones who weren’t paying close attention. They respected her enough to obey her orders, but she wasn’t fooling herself; she was nowhere near as intimidating as a captain would be. But she  _ was  _ the one in charge of this training exercise, so she was determined to do well. “I know you’re all looking forward to a break after the summer we just had—” a few sympathetic groans broke the quiet, “—but that’s no excuse to get soft! A lazy troll hunter is a dead troll hunter.” She paced along the ranks, trying to channel the air of command she’d seen in her superior officers. “So we’re going to do a little training exercise. Who wants to volunteer?”

Silence. She could practically hear the thoughts turning in their heads, each of them willing someone else to step forward. She was about to give up and call on someone when a voice from the back of the rank called, “I’ll do it.”

Solveig knew that voice. She’d heard it often enough, barking orders on the battlefield or telling drunken stories in the mead hall. But she hadn’t expected to hear it coming from her soldiers. And apparently they hadn’t either, because she could see them go rigid with shock when her volunteer stepped forward.

“General,” Solveig said, “How...kind of you to offer.”

General Eide’s eyes glinted. “Everyone says I’m the soul of kindness. So what do you want me to do, Lieutenant?”

Solveig  _ wanted  _ to know why the general was there, but she couldn’t very well  _ say  _ that. “Right. Ah, well, the idea is kind of like sparring, except...there’s no point in practicing swordwork against another person with a sword, not when our enemy will never be holding one. So to keep ourselves in fighting trim, I’ve asked the quartermaster to rig these up.” Solveig held up a bulky piece of fabric that looked like an old flour sack full of stuffing—which it had been, once—and hefted it in her hands. "So you'll be paired up. One person gets a sword, and the other gets one of these."

"A flour sack?" the general asked. Solveig found herself wishing she'd picked a different activity for the day. But she swallowed hard and kept going.

"A troll costume," she said. Gods, she was going to have to wear it, wasn't she? She'd intended to put it on whichever luckless soldier "volunteered", but there was no way she'd do that to her superior officer. "The idea is, one person gets practice fighting heavily encumbered, and the other fights a simulation of a certain kind of troll. When you're fighting an enemy that's bigger than you, you might have the advantage in speed and mobility, but," she waved one of the costume's sleeves in the air, "there may be extra limbs, or skeletons that don't work how you expect them to. So you have to be prepared for anything." With a sigh, she started to lift the costume over her head.

"Hold up." The general caught at the fabric. "Why do  _ you  _ get to wear the troll costume?" 

Solveig blinked. "Umm. To demonstrate—"

"Bullshit." General Eide snatched the suit away. "I have more experience killing trolls than any two of you put together. If anyone is going to play the troll, it'll be me!" She pulled the fabric over her head, twisting it around so she could get her arms through the right holes. Solveig stared; behind her, she could tell her platoon were doing the same. Every single one of them was focused in a way they hadn't been before. "So. Who's gonna fight me?" The oversize costume was swimming on her tiny frame, but instead of making her look silly, Solveig thought she looked even more regal than usual.

"That's me, General," Solveig said. She wished she didn't have to, but there was no getting out of it now. And it would be cruel to match one of her soldiers against the general. So she drew her sword and settled into the guard position. "Right. So if a troll comes at you, the first thing to remember is—" She never got to finish her sentence. One of the troll suit's extra arms—another flour sack, cut into smaller strips and stuffed with sawdust and gravel—swung around and knocked her off her feet.

"The first thing to remember is, there  _ are  _ no rules, only trolls that want you dead," the general said. "You're gonna have to be faster than that if you plan to battle the real deal, Lieutenant." She waited for Solveig to rise, then swung at her again. This time Solveig managed to dodge the arm, but she was completely unprepared for the general's head when it collided with her stomach. Solveig landed on the ground again.

"The second thing," General Eide said, "Is never expect two trolls to act the same. There are so many different kinds out there, there's no telling what they'll do." She didn't even wait for Solveig to rise this time; the lieutenant had to roll to the side to avoid the weighted arm. A smile flitted across the general's face.

It went on like that for ages. The general would attack, and make some kind of comment; Solveig would do her best to dodge. Her sword was all but useless. She'd intended to use it to demonstrate a few moves her soldiers could try, but the general never gave her enough time. Which...was how it often was, in a real battle. It didn't make Solveig feel any better, though.

By the time they stopped, Solveig was panting for breath, and even the general was breathing hard. Sweat soaked her hair and dripped onto the troll suit. She grinned at Solveig and held up her hand. “Well! That was refreshing. I don’t know how well it works as a training technique, but—”

Solveig didn’t even think—she simply saw the opening and took it. One moment, the general was waving her faux tentacle arm in the air; the next, Solveig had used the flapping appendage to pull her off-balance, knocked her to the ground, and put the sword to her throat. And then she nearly dropped the sword in her haste to back off and help the general up. “General! I’m sorry, I—”

But General Eide was laughing. “Yes! That’s the way.” She allowed Solveig to help her to her feet and turned to address the assembled troops. “And that’s another lesson. Never underestimate the element of surprise!”

While the soldiers were dividing themselves into pairs and sorting out who had to wear the troll costumes, the general pulled Solveig aside. “I’ll have to take back what I said about this not working as a training technique. It  _ was  _ very instructional.” 

“It...was?” Solveig asked. She kept waiting for the axe to fall; everyone knew what General Eide could do with an axe, and her tongue was just as deadly.

“Oh, yes. You actually did pretty well...for a lieutenant.” The general rubbed her shoulder and brushed some dust from her tunic. “I’ll be watching you.” She started to walk away, and somewhere Solveig found the courage to ask:

“So does that mean I can marry your grandson?”

The general snorted. “Keep trying. I said  _ captain _ , and I meant it.”

* * *

 

"Remind me again why we're doing this?" Lise said. She shook her head, sending water droplets everywhere. Not that it helped; it was still raining. It had been raining for a week straight, in fact, and everyone who could find a moment to get out of the wet was doing so. Even the trolls seemed to be taking a break.

But while everyone else in their unit was drying out their outsides and wetting their throats with mead, Solveig and Lise were tromping through the relentless drizzle, ankle-deep in mud. Judging from her scowl, Lise was not happy.

"It shows initiative!" Solveig said. She was determined to keep her spirits up, even though one of her boots had sprung a leak and she probably looked like a drowned rat-beast. People who were captain material didn't complain about the weather. Or shirk their duty just because it happened to be a little bit damp outside. At least, that was what she told herself.

"Right. Initiative. It has nothing to do with anyone gunning for a promotion. Or the fact that a certain someone is stuck on watchtower duty, so whoever volunteers to bring the supplies is bound to run into him." Lise hunched further into her cloak. "Sometimes, I really hate you."

"You love me," Solveig assured her, "and you'll love me even more when we're both captains. Anyway, this has nothing to do with anyone at the watchtower, I just wanted to impress the generals. Just you wait, when it's time for a new captain, they'll remember the people who volunteer."

Lise snorted. "Sure. But I don't think you have much hope with this particular general. You've already made  _ quite  _ an impression on her." She hefted her pack higher and started up the ladder.

Solveig froze at the base of the tower. "Wait. Do you mean... _ General Eide _ is up there? What is  _ she  _ doing on watchtower duty?"

"You didn't know?" Lise kept climbing. "She's been rambling on about the old days, and apparently the other generals are getting sick of her. So they asked her to 'check on' this station to get her out of the way for a while."

_ Oh. Shit.  _ Despite all her efforts to be cheerful, Solveig felt her heart sinking into her boots. Ever since she’d let her big mouth get the better of her, it seemed like General Eide was always looking for ways to catch her out and embarrass her. Showing up at the tower looking like a bedraggled puppy wouldn’t help matters. But she had come too far to turn back now, so she gritted her teeth and climbed the ladder.

The watchtower wasn't much to look at: a bare-bones shelter fixed to the side of a cliff, perfectly situated to keep any approaching trolls or beasts in sight. It had walls and enough of a roof to keep out the rain, but that was all. Which meant watchtower duty was a horribly boring job unless a troll actually attacked. From the sound of things, General Eide was doing her best to liven things up.

"And then Alexander—he was my fourth boyfriend, or maybe my fifth? Either way, he was a killer violinist. Man, the way he played it, you just knew those hands could also—"

"Grandma. PLEASE."

"That's  _ General  _ Grandma to you when we're on duty, Asbjørn. Show some respect!" Solveig reached the top of the ladder just in time to see the general smack her grandson in the side of the head. He caught sight of Solveig and Lise at the same time; his face turned as red as his hair. The general didn't seem at all bothered. "Oh, look, the supply crew! Get some towels or something, these girls look half-drowned."

Solveig hauled her pack through the opening and made an effort at a salute. "We're fine, General. Nothing like a little rain to wake us up, right Lise?" She tried to shoot Lise a meaningful look, but Lise spoiled it by squeezing water out of her hair.

"Speak for yourself, I want a blanket and a hot water bottle," Lise grumbled. She accepted the blanket Asbjørn offered and used it to towel her hair. "Thanks. Solveig, quit being noble, you're dripping all over the floor."

"I'm not—" But she was, and it was stupid to deny it. She allowed Asbjørn to wrap a blanket around her shoulders— _ not _ because it meant he put his hands on her, dammit, she just didn't want to be rude—and turned back to the general. "Permission to wait here until the rain lets up?" She'd meant to deliver the packs and get out of there as fast as she could, but the thought of going back into the rain now was too much to bear. Also, Lise might kill her.

"Sure, stay all night if you want. It'll make the time go faster." The general settled more comfortably into her seat by the window. "Especially since Asbjørn here doesn't seem too excited by my old stories. I can't imagine why." The grin on her face said she knew  _ exactly  _ why, and was enjoying it immensely. 

Asbjørn groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Maybe because you  _ insist  _ on talking about your old boyfriends and girlfriends, Gran-I mean,  _ General _ ?"

If anything, General Eide seemed to smile wider. "What, are you tired of hearing about my sweet violin man? I bet Solveig here would appreciate my stories." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Or better yet, maybe she has some stories of her own. Tell me, Lieutenant...have you ever... _ played violin _ with someone special?" She winked. 

Solveig swallowed hard. “Um.” She couldn’t look at Lise, who made a choking sound, and she  _ certainly  _ couldn’t look at Asbjørn. It would have been a convenient time for a troll to climb through the window, or for the floor of the watchtower to collapse and send her plummeting into the dark. But none of that happened, so she decided to ignore the general’s real question and play it straight. “I...haven’t played violin. I’m not really big on card games.”

Lise’s choking turned into a coughing fit; out of the corner of her eye, Solveig could see Asbjørn shaking his head in a warning gesture. Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the sudden chill in the general’s voice. “Card games?” There was a dangerous edge, like the moment before a knife broke skin. “You don’t...like...card games.”

“N-no?” Should she have said yes? Pretended she  _ had  _ played this ‘violin’ game she’d never heard of? Clearly she’d struck a nerve, but she had no idea what to do now.

The general didn’t give her a choice, anyway. In one fluid motion, she was on her feet, all traces of laziness vanishing. “Right. Asbjørn, stay here with the lieutenant. Not  _ you, _ ” she clarified, poking Solveig in the chest, “the other one.  _ You’re  _ coming with me.” She pointed to the ladder. “Go on.” Solveig went.

General Eide led the way to her own quarters, ignoring the guards’ questioning looks and the trail of mud she left in her wake. When they arrived, she pointed to a chair—Solveig sat—and disappeared into another room. Which left Solveig with nothing to do but fidget and stare at her surroundings. 

The space wasn't what she’d expected. If Solveig had thought about it, she'd have said a general would live in a space organized with military precision, or maybe fill her rooms with trophies from her years of success. If nothing else, there'd at least be an impressive bearskin rug and an array of weapons displayed on the walls. But General Eide's quarters were...well, homey. Rag rugs warmed the polished wood floors, and the fire crackling in the hearth cast a soft glow. There were overstuffed chairs by the fire, well-worn from years of use. A pair of fur slippers sat in front of one of them. And the walls were cluttered with photographs and paintings. There were a few landscapes, but mostly the frames were full of people. There was one with the general in full uniform, looking serious—and next to it, a photo that must have been taken a moment later, in which she was doubled over with laughter. That same infectious grin appeared in other pictures too: the general as a young woman, with her arm slung around a man who looked so much like Asbjørn that he had to be the general's late husband. Another with the two of them and a second couple, wearing odd, Old World clothes. The general with a tiny red-haired child who could only be Asbjørn, showing him how to use a sword. The general, young again, watching an old woman load a rifle.

"We managed to save a few precious things, at least," the general said. She dragged an old box into the room, shoving the lid off onto the floor next to her discarded boots. "Not everything. Certainly not every _ one _ ." She rummaged in the box and pulled out a series of strange objects. Solveig wanted to ask what they were for, but this felt like a moment that would fracture if she interrupted. General Eide busied herself with fitting the pieces from her box together and kept talking. "Still, it's easy to forget sometimes. We've come a long way—there's electricity now, and our military is strong enough to get bored if we don't go looking for fights. Do you know, for the first few years, we were terrified every time someone got pregnant? So much can go wrong, when you can't leave the safety of the walls and the people with medical training have only ever splinted broken bones and stitched up cuts." She sat back on her heels and sighed. "We've gained so much, and I don't regret that. But we're losing more every single day."

With one last adjustment, General Eide set the wooden arm of her strange device onto the round, flat disc she'd placed on top of it. She turned the crank a few times, adjusted the strange flower-shaped horn at the top, and stepped back. For a moment nothing happened. Then soft notes spilled out of the horn, scratchy and screechy and artificial. As the volume rose and became a song, the general closed her eyes. 

There were words, odd ones, in a language Solveig had only heard the oldest veterans speak. But the song was carried by the fluid strains of an instrument she couldn’t quite place. It sounded stringed, maybe, but it wasn’t the Hardanger fiddle she’d grown up hearing in the mead hall. And it wasn’t the sort of rousing fiddle tune that was popular in the mead hall, either. It told a lonelier story, of a world long broken and gone.

Solveig held her silence and her breath until the song finished. “That was beautiful,” she whispered, when General Eide didn’t say anything.

The general opened her eyes. They looked suspiciously damp, but maybe it was just reflected firelight. “That,” she said, “Was a violin. Which is a musical instrument,  _ not  _ a card game.” She shook her head. “They mostly use the fiddle these days, but I didn’t realize people had actually  _ forgotten.”  _

_ Oh.  _ “So this isn’t about...umm…”

“Your plan to marry my grandson?” General Eide asked. She snorted. “No. Although I was going to put you through the wringer back there, before you set me off. I don’t know whose face was redder, yours or his.” Her usual smirk was back. “Would have  _ loved  _ to hear some of your romantic exploits. And I could have told you all about Asbjørn’s, too.”

“You...you could?” As strange as this whole interlude had been, maybe something good would come of it.

“Sure. But I’m not going to  _ now _ .” The general eased to her feet, wincing as her joints creaked. “It’s no fun without Asbjørn here to embarrass.” She walked Solveig to the door. “Out of curiosity, have you told him about your little plan yet?”

Solveig blushed and busied herself with pulling her soggy boots back on. “No.” There had been some hints, suggestive comments and hopeful glances between them, but that was all. “I was going to—”

“Nope, sorry, that’s all the curiosity I have for tonight,” the general said. “And I notice you haven’t made captain yet, so we really shouldn’t be having this conversation. Anyway, off you go. Tell your friend she’s off duty, you can take over the rest of my watch.”

“The rest of...your watch…?” The thought of going all the way back to the watchtower was not a pleasant prospect. But…

“Yep. Consider it your punishment for not knowing what a violin is.” And then, amazingly, the general  _ winked.  _ “It’s harsh, I know, but I expect you and my grandson can commiserate over it.”

As Solveig walked back to the watchtower, her heart was so light that she didn’t even notice the rain soaking into her boots.

* * *

 

“Solveig! Asbjørn! Come quick, you have to stop her!” Lise skidded to a halt in front of them and put her hands on her hips. “If, you know, you can stop making out for five minutes.”

The two of them sprang apart—Solveig had only meant to find out what time Asbjørn was planning to come over later, but somehow they’d gotten wrapped up in each other—and turned questioning looks on Lise. “Stop her from what?” Solveig asked. No point in asking who ‘she’ was; by now all of Dalsnes knew that Asbjørn was the only one who had any hope of convincing General Eide to stop doing something. And these days, where one found Asbjørn, one usually found Solveig, too.

“She’s left the base, gone off toward the mountains to fight trolls,” Lise said. “She said she’s not coming back until they’re all dead.”

Asbjørn swore and took off running for the gate. Solveig paused just long enough to say, “Tell the other generals, Lise,” before following.

They caught up with her half an hour later. Somehow, she actually  _ had  _ managed to find a troll nest; whoever had scouted this part of the forest most recently was going to get a talking-to when they got back. By the time they arrived, General Eide had already accounted for one of them, and she had a second on its last legs. But she was also bleeding from a cut on her arm, and her harsh breathing spoke of stamina that wasn’t as good as it used to be. Even so, she was in a good mood.

“Come to join the fun, kids?” she said, dodging a many-jointed limb and twisting to harry the creature with her sword. “I guess I can let you have a few, if you want.”

“Grandma, what are you  _ doing?”  _ Asbjørn demanded, even as he drew his own sword and waded into the fray. “You don’t go after trolls by yourself, that’s insane! It’s the first thing we teach the new recruits!” He severed the troll’s head and moved on to another.

“That’s because new recruits don’t know their head from their—ahh!” General Eide’s troll scored another hit, and she went down in a flood of swearing. The troll reared up to finish her—but Solveig was there, darting in to finish it instead. Seeing that Asbjørn was taking care of the last one, Solveig stabbed the troll one final time—just to make sure—and crouched down to check on the fallen general.

“Is it bad?” Solveig asked. General Eide stopped swearing for long enough to glare at her.

“I’ll live, but it fucking  _ hurts,”  _ she said. She had a hand clamped over the wound on her arm to stem the flow of blood, and allowed Solveig to wrap it with a strip torn from her tunic. “And it’s not even fun getting scars anymore. No one thinks they’re sexy on someone my age.”

Solveig rolled her eyes. “And  _ that’s  _ definitely what you should be worrying about right now.” She tightened the bandage to the best of her ability. “Can you stand? Or should we carry you?”

Another glare. “The day I get carried home because of an  _ arm  _ wound is the day they put me out to pasture.” The general shoved to her feet, swayed, and had to lean on Solveig to stay upright. “Of course, they’re trying to do that anyway. Miserable bastards, telling me I should think about retiring.”

Asbjørn returned, wiping troll guts from his sword. “Is  _ that  _ what this is all about? Because they asked you to nominate someone to replace you as general?” He shook his head. “Grandma.”

_ “General  _ grandma,” she grumbled, “They haven’t buried me yet.”

“You’re not  _ acting  _ much like a general right now,” Asbjørn pointed out. He turned his attention to Solveig. “Are you all right? Need any help with her?” Solveig had hoisted the general’s uninjured arm over her shoulders and put an arm around her waist to steady her. It was a little frightening, how light she was even with her thick hunting gear. Solveig forgot sometimes that the fearsome General Eide was also an old woman.

“It’s fine, I’ve got her,” Solveig said. They started walking, taking it slow for the general’s sake.

“Yeah, quit fussing, Asbjørn. I’m in capable hands with Captain Solveig here.”

Solveig stumbled. “Wait, with  _ who?”  _

General Eide grinned at her. “You heard me. They might be trying to put me on a shelf somewhere, but before they do, I’m calling for your promotion. And not just because I think you’d make an excellent granddaughter-in-law. You’ve earned it.”

“So...does that mean…” Solveig took a deep breath. “Requesting permission to marry your grandson, General?”

“Permission granted.” General Eide chuckled, then added, “And call me General Grandma. We’re going to be family, after all.”

“Umm...do I get any say in this?” Asbjørn asked. He trailed behind them, still holding his sword and looking slightly terrified by how well his girlfriend and his grandmother were getting along. “It  _ is  _ my wedding you’re talking about, you know.”

Solveig rolled her eyes. “Right, like you  _ haven’t  _ been dropping hints about marriage for months. But if it makes you feel better, you can do a sappy proposal and choose the wedding date and even name our firstborn.”

“As long as you name her after her great-grandmother,” General Eide said. 

Asbjørn let out a world-weary sigh. “Gods. Can you imagine  _ two  _ Sigrun Eides running around? I can barely keep up with  _ one _ .”

Ahead of him, Solveig and the general exchanged a fond glance. Two Sigrun Eides. All in all, Solveig rather liked the idea.

**Author's Note:**

> I...don't know if violins would still be a thing in post-rash Norway (the probably would) but I didn't realize that until halfway through. So...let's just say Solveig is more familiar with the traditional Hardanger fiddle.


End file.
